


A Thousand and One Nights (Or Seven)

by Kerowyn6



Series: Lymond AUs [2]
Category: Lymond Chronicles - Dorothy Dunnett
Genre: Gen, Joleta Has A Lot of Issues and People Recognize This But She Is Still Happy, Pirate AU, References to Francis Crawford
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-19
Updated: 2017-09-19
Packaged: 2018-12-31 13:05:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12133119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kerowyn6/pseuds/Kerowyn6
Summary: “Right,” said Philippa, to no one in particular, “It’s only been pirates this once. No sense in getting down in the dumps about it.”





	A Thousand and One Nights (Or Seven)

**Author's Note:**

> Aaaaaaaaah it's finally done. This took over a month to be spawned. Many thanks to invite-me-to-your-memories, who helped me when I got stuck, and to physticuffs, who drew the seminal Pirate Marthe art. 
> 
> Joleta hijacked this fic.

They called her the Poppy of Provence, although mostly for the alliteration. It was many a beaten sailor who would be found washed up on the Normandie beach, or stranded on a raft buffeted halfway up the Saône, or pulled from the sea by a fisherman off of Isle de Ré. No one, it seemed, knew her real name-- Marie was proposed by default, and Jeanne by certain strained campagne wives, and Lilith by the more biblically minded politicians. But the public sought two words which could be passed from person to person like a galette des rois, and shared over a dinner along with a sensationalist wine. None so were forthcoming. 

Eh bien, said Paris, when faced with the topic, on perd des bateaux à la mer et on perd des bateaux à la fille. Tout ça passerait, mais la couronne restera. 

But so did the sea, and so did the Poppy. In fact the only thing that didn’t seem to stay, thought Philippa Grey as she stood on the prow of her husband’s ship and gazed at the approaching caravel, was the money. Austin was a decent man, a fair husband, and an average politician, but if it wasn’t wartime diplomacy it was pirates. 

“Right,” said Philippa, to no one in particular, “It’s only been pirates this once. No sense in getting down in the dumps about it.”

The black and red sails drew nearer. 

Philippa scanned the distant coast. La Rochelle, she thought desperately. Will we make it to La Rochelle? We’ve got to, said a small hysterical voice in the back of her head which she tried her best to suppress, Austin said he would buy me chocolates with sea salt. 

She glanced back at the frantic deck. Austin was above them all, talking with the captain on the quarterdeck. It was evident in the way his hands flitted around and his eyes widened that he was frantically afraid. 

Her husband had given the order to ready the cannons. The flurry of motion was frenzied and ill-prepared. This was a merchant ship in calm waters.

The sails were closer. 

Seized by a red-edged determination, Philippa gathered her skirts and marched up to the quarterdeck. “Austin.” He didn’t hear her over the commotion of the crew. “Austin!”

He turned, his auburn hair wind-blown and stress lines gathering like crows on his brow. “Get below.”

“It’s only a flight of stairs away,” she said reasonably. “Which means the pirates will get there easily. Austin, surrender.”

The captain, a tall red-headed Scotsman with the subtlety and attitude of a hammer, grimaced at her. “That’s what I’ve been telling him,” he told Philippa. “I’ve made the mistake of fighting before. Surrender,   
Master Grey. That’s the Poppy’s flag. I’ve survived this far; I don’t intend to die today because some blasted idiot couldn’t look weak to his wife.”

Austin glared, and Philippa saw the small hint of satisfaction at the corner of the captain’s mouth. They had been going at it for a quarter of an hour, she thought, but one might say to a man in private was not what one might say in front of his accomplished wife, unless of course one was Captain Will Scott. 

She gave him a small frown for civility’s sake, and turned, smiling, to her husband. “Please, Austin,” she cajoled. “Is it not braver to count one’s blessings and live to fight another day?”

The silence stretched to fraying between them, and then snapped. “Fine,” said Austin. “Fine, we surrender. But you go below decks.”

“But--”

A fair husband, and lacking one meaning of the word. He took her firmly by the arm and dragged her bodily down the two flights of steps. The hard wood of the door closed behind her, and she heard the click   
of the lock and Austin’s footsteps away.

Brilliant, she thought. Tact abounds. She didn’t know whether Austin or Captain Scott would be a worse negotiator. 

Afternoon light seeped in through her window, and she threw herself down on her bed, gazing out at the waves and trying not to notice the unbearable sensation of waiting for the axe to fall. Head on the slab,   
Austin, she thought. Don’t you dare raise it. 

She felt, more than heard, the thunk of the boarding party’s steps. The clock on the wall ticked. 

3:52.

Someone began to shout, but was stifled quickly. 

3:53.

On her desk, a breeze from the cracked window danced across the pages of her book. 

3:54.

It must be lonely, being a pirate, with only other pirates and the wind for company. 

3:55.

Did they call her the Poppy because you needed it after she was done with you, or because she put you to your final sleep?

3:56. 

Thou art not Gawayn that is so goud halden.

3:57. 

There was some kind of a commotion above. For comfort’s sake, Philippa reached in her bedside drawer and took out the penknife she kept there, clutching it like a childhood toy. 

3:58.

You spend your whole life waiting for death. Why fear now?

3:59. 

The penknife left a green tarnish on her fingers. This was fear, et honi fût qui mal y pensait. 

4:00.

A horrible, deadly silence, broken by a gunshot, and then a flood of screams cascading over the dam. Suddenly, Philippa could move. 

What she did was very deliberately place her penknife on the desk, touch up her blanched cheeks with a little colour, and drape herself over her armchair like a prize tapestry. 

It took ten minutes for the door to be kicked in. It felt more like ten seconds. In Philippa’s numb cocoon of shock, time flowed like paint. Like blood. Was Austin dead? The thought occurred to her with the calm   
consideration every thought floated in since the gunshot. 

A figure appeared at her door like some kind of holy warrior from Hell, bloody light trickling down the stairs and gathering along the sword, on the ice-white hair, in the blue eyes. 

“I found the wife,” the apparition threw up the staircase. “Toss me some rope.”

Philippa let herself be bound with what she sincerely felt was the most grace anyone could have under the circumstances. Standing next to her, the woman barely reached her chin, and Philippa was of average height. Five feet tall, but another two feet of attitude. Philippa was impressed despite herself. 

And so, trussed and tied, Philippa followed the Poppy of Provence up onto the deck. At least the woman had the decency to let her walk. 

For the scene of what appeared to be a fair-sized massacre, everything seemed relatively tidy. The limbs unencumbered by a body had been brushed to the side, and if one looked at it in a meditative frame of mind, the blood could have been a distasteful red varnish on the planks.

But Austin, gagged and bound and kneeling, was no interior decorator. 

The Poppy took a slow promenade in front of him, fingers tapping along the barrel of a gun she had produced from somewhere. 

“As it turns out,” she said conversationally, something dark glinting in her deep blue eyes, “the difference between me and my brother is that my brother wouldn’t make your wife watch as he shot you.”

It took all Philippa’s years of serving at a cutthroat court to stay completely still as the shot sounded, single and certain. She could feel eyes on her. She would give them nothing to look at. 

Someone in the throng of pirates gave a low whistle. Philippa hated them with a burning passion, and the anger kept her from crying, kept her from being afraid. 

It must have been lonely being a pirate, but a person who would do that didn’t even deserve the wind. 

 

She found herself, upon waking, in a dark, creaking room, lying atop a crate. What had woken her was a rhythmic stomping. 

The rhythmic stomping was Captain Will Scott, pacing furiously back and forth beside her. 

“Bloody-minded bastards,” he snarled, when he saw she had woken. “They shouldn’t have done that in front of you. No matter what she says she’s just like her brother, the murderous dog.”

“Her, or her brother?”

Scott threw his hands in the air. “The both of them.”

“Who is he?”

“He’s Francis Crawford, that’s who he is. I wish I’d never met him.” He paused, and gave a philosophical shrug. “I wish he was still here. Whoreson.” 

“Francis Crawford? The governor of Quebec? I’ve heard a bit about him.” More than heard.

“Don’t bring him up. That’s what happened to your husband.” He had the decency to look vaguely regretful.

“Thou shalt not take the Lord’s name in vain,” agreed Philippa mildly. It was, she supposed, a coping mechanism. “I won’t mention yours if you don't mention mine. I intend to get through today with a minimum of   
collapsing into tears.”

Sallow-faced, Scott nodded. “You should be fine. They’ll ransom you, right? It’s the galleys for me, certainly.” He paused, giving a brief start of laughter. “The idiosyncrasies of life.”

“I’m sorry,” she said simply, because a court-bred lady spends all her youth waiting for the years of forced servitude. “Perhaps you can organize a revolution. Take over the ship.”

“What failed on the brother might work on the sister? I barely kept my life last time. Women are crueler, Philippa. Always.”

She nodded slowly, her gaze tracing the dark wood beams of the ceiling. “We have to be.”

 

They came for her at what she thought was roughly noon. It was another woman who unlocked the door, perhaps Philippa’s age, light red hair cropped short and bangs framing her sweet face. She smiled, and looked like a Raphael painting. 

“Please follow me, Lady Grey.”

She did. There was nothing else to do. 

The redhead led her up a flight of steps, past what appeared to be the mess hall, and up to a small unobtrusive door at the end of the hallway. Philippa’s captor stopped in front of it, knocking quietly. “Captain?”   
Her voice sounded like melted honey. Philippa didn’t think she had ever met someone so softly charismatic. “Captain, I’ve brought Mistress Grey,” she said, giving Philippa a reassuring smile. 

The door opened. Behind it stood a tall woman, perhaps Irish, perhaps French, with jet black hair and a gaze like a lighthouse beacon. “Please,” she said. “Come in.”

Behind the desk sat the Poppy of Provence, looking a respectable portrait in a light blue dress, and with a pair of reading spectacles on her nose. “If it isn’t the widow Grey. Although I note your dress is still a rather vibrant shade of red that your eyes don’t have.” She lifted the the spectacles daintily off her nose. “Can’t muster up a facade, Lady Grey?”

The insinuation stung. “I won’t indulge you.” Stupid. Stupid Philippa, she thought fiercely. There’s no sense in being ransomed if you’ve sadly passed away from a fatal case of insensibly rude to pirates. She backtracked hurriedly. “That is, my lady-- Madame-- Captain, I will be suitably grieving if you are kind enough to provide me with the appropriate attire.” She heard a small tinkle of laughter from the redhead.

Her eyes still on Philippa, the captain waved a hand toward the door. “Leave us, Joleta. And see to it that our gracious guest gets something to wear for mourning. I leave it to your discretion.”

The smile Joleta gave Philippa looked less like a Raphael painting and more like something out of a Bosch. She turned and sashayed away down the hall, closing the door behind her. 

“My quartermaster,” said the captain. “And this is O’Dwyer, my first mate.”

The tall woman gave her a small, curt smile, her arms crossed. She was dressed in a loose-fitting red shirt and black trousers, and looked every inch the rogue. Her court reflexes taking over, Philippa curtsied. “My lady.”

“Yours?” asked the captain, a malicious curl to her lips. “I think not. Besides, you speak as though we’re back at your precious court. Tell me, do you think you’ll ever see your mother again?”

Bloody-minded bastards, remembered Philippa. “If one does not hope,” she said carefully, “then one has no reason to get up in the morning.”

“Joleta will see you to the plank, then. You see, I happen to know that the court of England has placed a ban on ransoms until the Spanish decide to abandon this pathetic sequel to the Reconquista.” She paused, raking her eyes over Philippa’s paling face. “The Spanish themselves, of course, hold no such inhibitions, particularly not for a member of such a….prominent family. You have heard, I am sure, of their particular methods of diplomacy?”

Philippa didn’t say anything. She didn’t trust her voice not to crack. 

“What, no witty repartee? Your own neck is finally enough to cry for.”

Straightening, Philippa gathered irony around her like a blanket. “My body is married to my neck rather more than my heart was to Austin.” She hated herself for saying it. It was cruel and adaptive and it took the captain by surprise. And, she thought ruefully, it was more true than she cared to admit. Puppy love was good for a engagement, but marriage required the love to grow with the puppies. Philippa had grown. Austin hadn’t, and neither had anything between them. Still, he deserved better. 

The captain sat back, eyeing her. “It’s amazing,” she remarked. “You truly seem to believe you belong in polite society.”

The words ushered in regret that course hot and shameful through Philippa’s veins. She tried her best to ignore it. “How much would the Spanish give you for me?”

“Shall we go with thirty pieces of silver?”

Was it a sacrifice worth making? Philippa was a woman of the world. She knew cruelty, and this was it sitting in front of her, neatly packaged in golden hair and red lips and eyes that didn’t miss anything. But she knew intelligence too, and it was here in that very same package. Sharp intelligence, like a stiletto, that left you strung up and gasping for air-- but intelligence nonetheless. 

But in comparison to the tender care of the Spanish, what wasn’t a sacrifice worth making?

“I have something better for you,” said Philippa, with a confidence she dragged out from the corners of her mind and held at gunpoint. 

A perfectly insouciant eyebrow quirked. “Oh?”

She’s just like her brother. Philippa took the skeptical gaze and held onto it for dear life. “I can get you music.”

“Music.” The captain’s smile was small and sharp and fake. “Do I strike you as a particularly musical person, Lady Grey?”

“You strike me as a particularly intelligent person, my lady,” said Philippa honestly. “Too intelligent to abstain from the simple pleasures of civilization simply because they are civilized. I play five instruments, and I sing. I know all the most important repertoire.”

“Really. Do you know the adhan?”

Philippa was a woman of the world. This was one test she could pass. “You insult both my intelligence and my manners. I have read, and I do not judge." She paused. "I do play the kaval.”

The smile was cold again, but Philippa saw she had caught the woman’s attention. “How fitting. I have one on board. A spinet, too, and a violin. You may entertain us tonight. Tomorrow, of course, I may decide on those thirty pieces of silver.” 

Relief crashed into her common sense and knocked it out cold. Philippa giggled. “One thousand and one nights?”

“I’ll give you seven.” 

“Seven?”

“Yes. The time it will take to get to Barcelona.”

“Right. Thank-- well, teşekkür ederim.”

“Where did you learn your Turkish, Cyprus?” asked the captain. “I hope you’re not under the impression you pronounced that correctly.”

“Istanbul!” Philippa protested. “I only had two weeks of instruction.”

“Yes. It shows. Oonagh, please find Joleta. I’m leaving our latest addition with her for the day.” The blue gaze turned back to the Philippa, vaguely amused. “I admire your lack of principles. You may fit in here perfectly.”

Bloody hell, thought Philippa eloquently as, standing in the hallway shaking with pent-up tension, she finally found herself with a door in between her and the devil. Bloody hell. Is this how it starts? You lie to her   
to save your skin, you make a deal, and you sell your soul as all the lies become true? Only demons made deals with the devil. 

O’Dwyer seemed to know what she was thinking. “What else is there?” she said and, without waiting for an answer, took Philippa by the arm. “Come on. Joleta should have more suitable clothing for you.”

 

Joleta did have more suitable clothing, and saccharine comments about it to boot. She held forth a pair of black trousers. “Mourning is abstinence,” she said, smiling sweetly at Philippa. “From colour and from respectability. I am sure you loved your husband very much.”

“Trousers!” said Philippa happily. “Thank you. Would you like the dress? It’s a rather nice one.”

From the look on Joleta’s face you would have thought that no one had ever freely given her a present in her life. The shock gave way to suspicion in an instant. “What are you angling for, better rations? I won’t give them to you.”

“No,” said Philippa. “But I don’t have much use for the dress, and besides, it will go better with your complexion than mine.”

With a look of supreme confusion on her face, Joleta nodded. “Thank you. Uh, here’s your shirt.”

It was also black, and had delightfully poofy sleeves. Philippa rather liked it. “Where do I stay?” she asked, as she undid the laces on her dress. 

“In a hammock like everyone else,” Joleta said. As she leant over to help Philippa, the low-cut collar of her shirt shifted and Philippa caught a glimpse of some sort of scar over her chest. It looked like a cross. 

Her fingers pausing, Joleta met her gaze. “What did you get from your family, Lady Philippa?”

It was an odd question. “Love,” said Philippa, after a moment’s reflection. 

For once there was nothing sweet about Joleta’s smile. “Me too. You know, some of us are glad we watched. Some of us wish we’d known to pull the trigger.” From her snigger Philippa knew that, with her fingers resting lightly on her back, she felt the shiver. 

“Are you happy here?”

Joleta looked her in the eyes, her face solemn. “Yes,” she said. “I have known angels. Hell is no paradise but it is a million times better than Heaven. Always remember it was the devil who offered us free will, and woman who took it.”

And what could one say to that?

 

_One._

She played the violin that night on the deck, old sailor ballads she had picked up who-knew-where, to raucous singing and dancing. Joleta reigned supreme in the latter, dancing with just about everyone, the women and the men alike. She spun at a breakneck pace with a tall, dark-haired man with a badly-scarred face, led a freckled redhead girl in a stately waltz, and accompanied Oonagh O’Dwyer in a set dance. 

The captain danced with no one. 

In the break between songs, she found herself approached by a young woman about her age and older man, perhaps fifty, with a good-natured smile. The man clapped her on the shoulder. “Joleta told Catherine ye gave her yer dress. Tha’ was a good thing ye did, lassie.”

“I’ll miss it,” said Philippa wistfully. “There’s nothing quite like a full brocade skirt for climbing ropes on a pirate ship.”

They both grinned at her. “I’m Archie,” said the man, “Archie Abernathy.”

“And I’m Catherine,” the girl said, holding out her hand.

Philippa took it. “Philippa.”

“Aye,” said Archie, “we’d rather gathered. We were all mighty impressed by yer little performance.”

“Oh.” She blushed. “I’ve been playing the violin since I was five. It’s all rote memory by now.”

“Not that,” said Catherine. “Back on the ship. We make a point to try not to kill the women, but generally there’s a lot more screaming involved. The captain was impressed too.”

“It would be nice,” remarked Philippa sourly, “if she would show her admiration by not ransoming me off to the Spanish to be tortured horribly with thumbscrews and bad Castilian poetry.”

“Yes, well.” She gave a chuckle. “No one has ever accused Captain Marthe of being nice.”

 

They strung her up a hammock above Catherine’s, and that night, with the crash of the waves around her and the stamp of feet on the deck above, Philippa Grey cried herself to sleep. 

 

_Two._

Philippa Somerville awoke to a bucket of cold water in her face. Blinking it out of her eyes and gasping, she made out Joleta’s face, her light red hair a halo around her laughing eyes. “Captain says you’re not to risk hurting your hands by hard labor,” she said, “but that doesn’t mean I’m not to put you to work. You’ll be helping Christian in the kitchen.”

“Where’s the kitchen?”

Joleta raised her eyebrows. “Use your mouth. It’s for asking for directions, among other things.”

 

She did not, in fact, have any difficulty finding the kitchen, as Catherine and someone Philippa assumed was Christian were standing in front of the door waiting for her to pass by. 

“That’s her,” said Catherine to Christian, waving Philippa over. “This is Philippa. Philippa, this is Christian, our cook. I’m sure you’ll get along wonderfully-- Christian loves music and books.”

Christian held out a hand. “A pleasure to meet you. Your playing last night was wonderful.” 

“Thank you,” said Philippa. 

“Now,” said Christian, reaching for the door frame. She was blind, Philippa realized. “Tell me everything you know about cooking chicken. Because I picked up twenty live ones from your ship and if I don’t murder them soon I may very well murder someone else.”

 

It became quickly apparent that Philippa knew only one way of cooking a chicken, which was to hold it over a fire live until it started to smoke. Christian decided in short order to place her in a chair safely away from anything culinary, with one of Christian’s evidently cherished books to read aloud. It was a rare copy of Gilgamesh, which Philippa had only ever read excerpts of. 

The day proved to be one of the best Philippa had ever spent, which made her feel rather guilty. She did mourn Austin. But she also knew that there was nothing to be gained by wallowing in depression, and much to be lost. 

And so Philippa, twenty-six years old and the height of practicality, put aside her grief and acted like a proper outlaw. She had to, she told herself, or she would be grieving more than Austin. She had to tell herself something. 

 

That night she played the captain’s kaval to a circle of silent, awe-struck watchers. Lonely shepherds’ songs and whirling coloratura. Archie cried. 

 

_Three._

 

She woke to a slightly less freezing barrel of water, and Joleta’s sniggering face. “Six o’clock,” said the woman. “It’s six fifteen. You’re with Christian again.”

This time when she walked through the door to the cook’s little enclave, there was a copy of Lancelot, or the Knight of the Cart sitting discreetly on the table. She sat curled by the window and read it while   
Christian carefully chopped onions for the captain’s luncheon. 

“Telle fut la place de Lancelot… Christian, are you all right?”

“I love onions,” said Christian, her voice thick. “It’s not that I’m crying.”

“I think,” Philippa said slowly, “that it is a million times better to cry over love than to cry over a root vegetable.”

Christian looked up toward her, her light eyes impossibly large. “I hope you stay,” she said. “Really. I hope you decide to let yourself be happy here.”

I hope I decide to let myself be happy anywhere, thought Philippa. 

 

The captain placed a lyre in her hands. “Tell us a story.”

 

_Four._

 

That day at lunchtime Catherine and Archie came into the kitchen, and Philippa regaled them and Christian with tales of hilarity from England’s foremost courtiers and politicians. She had never seen anyone laugh the way they laughed, open and wide, clutching their ribcages. They were all incredibly expressive-- Catherine, who upon first glance might have fit perfectly into some virtuous and ladylike Lippi scene,   
yawned hugely and without shame, and had collapsed twice into fits of helpless giggles. She was also unrepentantly Calvinist, although she’d used a French phrase rather beyond the Somerville tutor’s lessons in reference to John Knox. 

“To Calvin!” she shouted that night, as the four of them plus Joleta and her friend Sal crowded into the tiny kitchen, dizzy on bad wine and good words. “To Jan, bless his heart, and to Jesus, to Jehovah, to Allah, to whoever’s looking out for us. And to us, the monstrous regiment!”

“I thank John Knox for the trumpet,” said Christian wryly. 

But it was not in fact a trumpet that the Captain gave her, it was a chalumeau, upon which Philippa sounded mournful odes, shifted into modified part songs, and culminated in a crescendoing madrigal. This artistic piece de resistance was less appreciated by the general crew than the shanties had been, but something that might on a lesser creature than the Poppy of Provence have been a smile was creeping round the edges of the Captain’s mouth. Philippa returned what wasn’t quite there. As she fell asleep with her head still attached to her shoulders, she considered the evening a victory. 

 

_Five._

 

As the sun set under the glittering ocean, Philippa was led through the wooden intestines of the ship to the Captain’s personal quarters. There she was shown a spinet: in glorious condition, perfectly tuned, luxuriously painted. 

“Do you play?” she asked Captain Marthe.

“No.” 

Philippa pressed the issue no further, but sat herself down in front of the intricately carved keys and played a simple chromatic scale. The instrument hummed beneath her hands. She smiled. 

Captain Marthe didn’t, but she didn’t frown either. And Philippa was starting to realize that there were certain people upon whom a smile was the lightning in a hurricane: short, sharp, and sure to burn you. A blank slate was better.

 

_Six._

 

Philippa sang. She sang Tam Lin, and Judas, and a composition of her own making. 

The Captain gave her a single nod, and bade her goodnight. 

 

_Seven._

 

Joleta didn’t pour anything on her head that morning. Instead, she crouched low down next to her and whispered in her ear.

“They’ve sighted a Spanish ship off starboard. Smaller than us, but armed. Stay down here. You’ll probably here gunshot.” She paused, seemingly realizing reassurance was expected. “I don’t think you’ll die.”

“Thank you,” said Philippa, blinking sleep out of her eyes. “But I’m coming up.”

Joleta’s eyes narrowed. “Have you ever fired a gun? Held a sword? Have you ever killed anyone, Lady Philippa Grey?”

“I had to put my weasel down when I was twelve.”

“That doesn’t-- why?”

“It came down with consumption.” Philippa’s voice sounded small and pathetic even to herself.

“I don’t think weasels get consumption,” said Joleta. “And besides, I’m talking about people. Stay here. Wait. Surrender if anyone comes through that door.”

“Will surrendering help?”

“Probably not,” said Joleta prosaically, “but perhaps they’ll give you a nice silk pillow to be tortured on, hmm? Just like back home in Holyrood.” She threw Philippa a saucy smile, and pushed the sleeves of her blood-red shirt up. “Have fun waiting.”

And with that she turned and, hips swaying, made her way up the stairs. As the shock of such an abrupt start to the day began to wear off, Philippa realized that she was now alone in the sleeping quarters. The ship creaked. Up above, someone shouted.

Have fun waiting, she thought. Thou art not-- but you are. You put your head down once and survive to learn to kill the headsman first. Philippa cast her eyes around. A corner of blue fabric peeked out at her from behind a pile of Joleta’s clothes. She frowned, and made her way to crouch down beside it. 

Oddly, her travel bag seemed to contain everything it had nearly a week before and a lifetime away, when she had been a royal attendant, a respectable lady, and married to Austin Grey. Her beloved copy of Green Knight, last left on the desk of her room in Will Scott’s caravel. She routed around with her hand beneath that. Her prize pendant with a thumb-size portrait of St. Hilde. 

Her fingers closed on something long and wooden, and she grinned. It was a memoir of her childhood she brought with her everywhere. And some things never left you.

 

Some sights never left you, either. When Philippa was ten she had seen a friend of her mother’s pin her father to a wall with a knife. When she was eleven she had seen the man on trial in front of the queen for murder, robbery, and treason. When she was twelve she had seen the letter he sent her mother with the news of his new posting as a servant of the French crown. Some people, it seemed, were so sought-after a weapon the law did not apply to them. 

How could you overlook ending a life? How could you follow someone who would pave their path to success with bodies? How could you trust a leader who would use a blade like that?

She knew now. You did it because other people could use a blade like that too. Other people would pave their bloody roads higher. Other people would not even realize there was a sin to overlook. 

The Captain fought like her blade was an instrument. There was a rhythm to the slaughter, a crescendo in the violence, grace notes on the flourish of that second hidden knife. It was ever so hard to pull her eyes away from the whirling figure, but Philippa did, focusing on the rough ropes of the mast in front of her. She was terribly unfit: it had been several years since she had so much as climbed a tree. But she made it to the crow’s nest in one piece, still clutching her slingshot and bag of projectiles (various pieces of jewellery she had picked up around the cabin). 

She considered the situation, took careful aim, and fired. Down in the fray, someone dropped. 

Philippa knew what force it took to puncture flesh. She knew what force it took to fracture bone and embed in the brain. Some things friends of your mother told you in a fit of malicious education never left you, either. 

She dropped another man. 

They aren’t wearing helmets, she remembered thinking afterwards, in a sort of serene haze. How stupid of them. 

She didn’t remember anything much after that, but she did run out of jewellery. 

 

When she checked back into reality, Catherine had an arm around her, and Christian was holding out a mug of hot tea. 

“It’s going to be okay,” Catherine was saying. 

“Here,” said Christian, “drink this. You’ll feel better after something warm.”

“I’m all right,” said Philippa quietly. “Really. Thank you, Christian.” She took a slip, and glanced at Catherine’s concerned face. “I’m all right.”

“I know you’re probably feeling a bit--” Christian began, and then cut herself off. “That is to say this is probably--”

There were footsteps in the hallway, and the door swung open. 

“Grey,” said the Captain.

Philippa stared at her. “What would you like me to play?”

Behind the woman, Joleta gave a sharp grin. 

“I don’t want you to play anything, Grey. I want you to take a night off. You can play us a reel tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” Philippa’s mind kicked itself into action and attempted to catch up to her ears. 

“Unless you’d prefer to be deposited safely back in England?”

Her emotions sped past her scrabbling mind. “No! No, thank you Captain. I’ll…” she blinked. “...I’ll stay. Thank you.”

There it was, that terse, gratifying nod. Without another word, Captain Marthe turned and walked back out through the door. 

“Nicely done,” said Joleta, clapping her on the shoulder. There was dried blood underneath her fingernails. Philippa felt she should have been rather more concerned about this than she was. “It won’t be the end of the world to have you around.”

“Thank you,” said Philippa. “Thank you. Hold on.” She stood and, pushing past Joleta, bolted down the corridor after the Poppy of Provence. 

“Captain!”

She turned. “Yes, Grey?”

“It’s Somerville. Philippa Somerville.”

A raised eyebrow. A nod. And then she was gone. Philippa leant back against a wall, suddenly feeling as though her legs would desert her. Catherine and Joleta found her that way, back to the wood of the ship, a dazed smile on her lips. 

“Félicitations,” said Catherine. “I hope you don’t live to regret it.”

“I won’t.”

And I don’t suppose it matters much either way, thought Philippa to herself. Because living to regret adventure is a million times better than only reading life.

**Author's Note:**

> I didn't know where to fit it into the story but Will talks his way onto the crew too and he gets a happy ever after without being murdered. Ah, living the dream.


End file.
